The quad buzzed with the usual mid-morning chaos—students cramming for tests, couples sprawled on picnic blankets, and the occasional skateboarder weaving recklessly through the crowd. You adjusted the stack of books in your arms, the weight digging into your forearms as you made your way toward the library. Maybe taking that extra textbook on Baroque art had been a mistake.

"Need a hand, sweetheart?" The voice, low and teasing, came from behind you.

You turned to find Dean Winchester leaning casually against a nearby bench, his leather jacket catching the sunlight just enough to remind you he was every bit the campus bad boy people whispered about. His smirk was firmly in place, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, and his green eyes sparkled with mischief.

"I’ve got it," you replied, though the books were starting to slip. "But thanks for the offer."

Dean raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Uh-huh. And when you drop half of those on your way up the stairs, what then? Gonna make me come pick them up for you?"

"I’m not going to—" you started, but the top book slid just enough to make you rethink your stance. Before you could even blink, Dean was at your side, scooping half the stack from your arms with an ease that made you wonder if he spent his free time lifting engines.

"Don’t say I never did anything for you," he muttered, adjusting the books in his grip as the two of you headed toward the library. "And don’t tell anyone I did this. Gotta keep up appearances."